


Gravity and that Speed is Distance Over Time

by AFullRiggedShip (Wintermane)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Freeform, Hannigram - Freeform, How Do I Tag, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Murder Family, No Sex, Post-Series, at least thats how i planned it, but only kind of because i suckkk, post-show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 16:41:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13391934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wintermane/pseuds/AFullRiggedShip
Summary: There are always a series of moments leading to the one you want.





	1. 0-2

**Author's Note:**

> Hi hello, I haven’t posted anything in an age, right? Been busy, you know the usual. This was something I started probably two years back, and only a handful of nights being up at 2am has lead me to try and get it aced up. I write as I think, and I really really half arse my editing- so bear with me, please. 
> 
> This one has a lot to do with numbers and time, so I have broken it into small sections to make it slightly more understandable. Maybe. Also the first one is shortest, and they increase as we go. I did consider posting this in one fell swoop, and maybe this choice is a bad one. Not sure. I also as always am trying to approach the feeling of something that is not wholly love, nor desire. It is a complex feeling that comes with unknowing and that feeling of anxiety that joins it. 
> 
> Thank you for stopping by.

-*-

The space from where you fall, and land is called distance, and speed is the distance over time.  
The speed at which you fall, is defined by the gravity of the situation.  
The distance is what you make of it.

The last thing I say to you is that I love you.  
Until I knew you, I was never afraid of dying.  
Until I knew you, my eyes were closed. 

-*-

 

0-  
The first time had not been on that cliff by the sea. It was not when Hannibal woke up in quiet morning light in a small-town hospital, with Will sleeping in a chair beside him. It was not when they bought the large house in the cool North. And it certainly wasn't when the realtor dropped the keys off with them, Hannibal had locked the door and they stood in the empty entryway in silence.

There were times over and over when it could have happened, but like all important or seemingly unimportant things that occur in the universe, there is little hold on when any of them will tip the scale. And God forbid Hannibal allowed anything to be too cliche. 

 

1-  
It is spring, and a cluster of crabapples has started putting forth their little pink flowers. They have owned the house for a little over a month. Hannibal looks out from the kitchen, and his lips tighten while he watches Will pad quietly up the stairs. It has been one month with the house, two months since they came to live in the area, and three months since the hospital. They are healed, but are still healing. Will has said forty-five different phrases in that time. He has not said anything personal, or anything related to the years before. He has not said anything about his dogs, or his wife or his son. He is presumed dead. 

There was a moment, when Hannibal woke, before Will had shuffled off to get the doctor, where Hannibal had asked him. The unsaid statement being, "you cannot go home, you will never live free of any of this and no matter how hard you may try, you will live a lie". But perhaps that unsaid statement was from Will and not from Hannibal at all. However, the actual question was, "might you stay with me, Will?" And the answer was only the barest nod before scooting back the chair, "I should tell them you've woken up."

 

2-  
Since then Will Graham has said very little, he thanks Hannibal when meals are made. He will say if he likes them. He will answer basic questions about how he is feeling on any given day usually limited to "fine" or "alright". He will answer "yes" and "no".

That day, after the doctor had come and gone, after a meal, after the nurse had come to administer medications, and they were left sitting in the room, low afternoon light, that was the second time. Will stands stiffly and resets his chair in the corner, Hannibal puts his book down and looks up as if expecting Will to start on one of his semi-accusatory talks. His face slightly guilty, but with a hint of amusement. Will does not speak at first, he sits down heavily on the edge of the bed and exhales very slowly. He does not meet his eye, and his voice is shallow and devoid of feeling, "I don't know why we're alive." Hannibal refrains from making light of it. "We could have died, we should have died." Will's fingers tighten on the edge of the bed, "it could have been so easy, just like it was easy for you to leave." One hand comes up to grip his shirt around his stomach. His fingers twist in the loose fabric. 

"It was never easy to leave you, Will." Hannibal responds the same way he always has, calm, low, and very in control. Even now. Will lets out a sharp exhale mixed with a short barking laugh. He turns a little and lets his head fall on Hannibal's shoulder. "I only wish it could have been easier on you." There is one moments worth of breath. "I am sorry for what has happened with us." There is another moment, one where Will lifts his head up just a few inches, and there is another moment where the side of his face touches Hannibal's. The last moment is when Hannibal turns his face inward to where his mouth is just ahead of Will's ear, "I am sorry, Will."  
Will stands abruptly, and leaves the room. This series of moments ends.

-*-


	2. A-C

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part two of a series of moments.

A-  
Hannibal covers the dough he had been working with a towel and washes his hands. He boils two separate batches of water, one for coffee and one for tea. At some point he has acquired some amount of decent China, which he is very pleased about and he smiles a little to himself as he pours the two steaming drinks. He follows the path Will took up the stairs. 

 

B-  
The next time it could have been was when they visited the house, and they were waiting to meet the realtor. 

It was a large house, but apparently had gone unoccupied for some time. Fresh snow covers the ground. Will is exploring around the outside and Hannibal is several paces behind. Will stops and turns around, "this is nice, I like it." He looks up into the canopy of winter trees, "it reminds me of where I used to live." Hannibal catches up to him, hands in his pockets to guard against the cold. Will keeps his hands out without gloves. His knuckles are pink. Hannibal narrows his eyes a little, "you ought to wear something to keep your hands warm, Will." "Didn't bring any with." Will shrugs. Hannibal pulls his hands out of his pockets and removes his gloves. "If you insist, then wear these at least." Will crosses his arms and tucks his hands under his armpits. "I'm alright." Hannibal lifts his eyebrows and a small smile touches the corner of his mouth, "of course you are." Will removes his chapped hands and in a second Hannibal has grabbed them. 

They stand there. Will looking flustered, his breath hitting the air in short white puffs. "Wear the gloves, Will." Will pulls his hands away and grudgingly takes the gloves from Hannibal. "There, happy?" He mutters after putting them on, not willing to admit that they feel much better. "It is only that I have your best interest at heart." They stand that way, slightly too close, but Will is not willing to admit his mistake in letting Hannibal be so near. A late winter bird calls, and Will glances up. For a moment they are but inches apart. Tires crunch on the snow far down the driveway, and Will stomps off to meet them.

 

C-  
Somehow things have normalized. Will is still quiet, but much less silent. He does not place his fork and knife down at the end of a meal with no more than a whisper. He no longer showers deep in the middle of the night, when he allows himself to shed tears far from the eyes of Hannibal Lecter. He has come to say, "it's nice" or "it could be worse" when Hannibal makes conversation about the weather or something he's picked up from any semi-local market. 

Will is sitting on the couch in the parlor, at least, that's what Hannibal calls it, with the windows open. He is reading, in a soft green linen shirt and it is summer. It has now been five months. Hannibal walks briskly from the kitchen with a plate of scones and two glasses of iced tea. His shoes do not echo as they do in winter. Hannibal wears shoes inside the house.

The couch faces out, away from the door, and Will does not move when the kitchen door swings out and those shoes draw near. He does not speak. This is as things go. Hannibal reaches over the back of the couch, "would you care for something to drink, Will?" There is a moment, where Will Graham is very invested in the large forest green book depicting carefully drawn plants of the early 1800s, and Hannibal is just about to straighten his back, when that stubborn thing occurs yet again. Will, suddenly realizing a question has been asked of him, turns abruptly. The ice in the glass clinks. Hannibal is close, bending slightly at the waist, one hand still holding the tray of scones, the other offering the tea. Beads of condensation well around where he holds the glass. Will unconsciously whets his lips. The day is warm. "Thanks, I appreciate --". Hannibal's eyes widen, just the slightest bit, a millimeter or less, no one would have noticed, but Will does. Sighing, he takes the glass, and drinks deeply. Hannibal has straightened and is making his way around the couch to deposit the plate on the table. "I appreciate," Will starts again, aimlessly toying with the glass rim. "That you go to the trouble of things like this." He gestures with his free hand, looking away. "You really don't need to."  
Hannibal does not look at Will as he lifts his own glass, "Oh? I'd like to think I do." As he drinks, he is smiling at the corners of his mouth.


	3. I-IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 3.

I-  
It is one month later, in deep summer. Will is in the small vegetable garden, watering and picking weeds as he sees them. The summers in the north are short, cool winds will cut through the heat, but on some days the deep settling warmth lays heavy across the back. 

Will knows where Hannibal is. He is in the kitchen, his sleeves of his white long sleeve linen shirt expertly rolled to the elbows. Hannibal does not wear short sleeves. He is in the kitchen preparing their lunch for the day, it is cool inside the house- the lights are off, rays of sun streaming through the windows. 

Hannibal chances a glance outside, and sees Will straighten from his weeding. He stretches, his hands pushing at the small of his back. He lifts the bottom edge of his t-shirt to wipe the sweat off his face. The sharp twinge in Hannibal's chest was unexpected. Along Will's taut abdomen was a nasty scar. Will looks up and sees Hannibal, his eyes widen, and he nods a little. He holds up his hand. One finger. One second. Hannibal lets the tightness in his chest subside. 

A clatter at the back door, and Will is coming in. His hands brown with soil, sweaty, and warm like summer. He is holding an overflowing basket of vegetables under his arm, a glass of half-drunk lemonade, and a cotton hat in the other hand, and is toeing off his shoes. "These seemed ready to be picked, I thought we could use them in the next day or two." He says struggling with the second shoe and tipping towards the doorway to steady himself. Hannibal goes to him, "Will, let me help you." This was the next time. As Hannibal reaches for the basket and glass, Will loses his balance as he finally removes his shoe. He pitches forward, and Hannibal reaches out an arm to steady him. A tomato drops to the floor.

"I'm fine, I'm fine." Will mumbles, embarrassed. Hannibal is still holding his shoulder, his arm across Will's chest. He turns, and sees Hannibal, the older man with his eyes towards the floor drawing a shaky breath. He removes his hand very slowly. Will places the basket and his glass on the counter, he pauses. "Does it hurt you at all?" Hannibal's voice is abnormally soft, Will turns to find Hannibal standing a bit closer to him. "Does what hurt?" Hannibal takes another step closer, his eyes are bright and open. Will's hands grip the edge of the counter tightly as Hannibal reaches him. "I'm so sorry, Will." He murmurs, and lifts his hand to the cotton of Will's t-shirt. A shock goes through the other man, as Hannibal's fingertips make contact. There is a deep fear, that runs through his body, his senses are alive, and heart is pounding. Hannibal feels him tense and for a moment withdraws, just a fraction of an inch. "Will, I am so sorry." He says again, and more firmly touches the scar, through the shirt, and Will grips the counter edge even tighter.

"May I see it?" They have been standing like this for what seems like minutes. Will snaps his head toward Hannibal, "what?" Hannibal's hand reaches for the edge of the t-shirt. "I would like to see how it has healed." Will says nothing, his cheeks are stained pink, and he is shaking slightly with adrenaline. He looks away, but gives the barest of nods. Ever so slowly, Hannibal slides into a kneel and lifts the edge of Will's shirt. It's an ugly scar, white and raised. It has long since physically healed, but it is damming just the same. His fingertips barely touch it, the skin beneath it twitches. "It... doesn't hurt really ever, most of the time I don't notice it." Will forces out, his jaw is clenched, and he sounds the way he used to. Wary. Hurt. Sharp edges. He is still shaking. "I didn't mean for it to come to this, Will." Hannibal looks up at him, and straightens, carefully replacing the shirt and smoothing it around Will's hips. "I am sorry to have hurt you." Will turns at that, and does not balk when his face is remarkably close to Hannibal's. "I do not ask for your forgiveness." He murmurs, his eyes not on Will's face. A sound makes him raise his eyes, it's very soft. He looks and realizes that Will, however quietly and briefly, has let out the smallest laugh. Not the sharp one, filled with betrayal and hurt, but something different. 

"Will, would you say something to me?" The other man sighs, "I want to though," he starts, "I want to forgive you. What you did, every single time, should be unforgivable, but here I am. My life has been uprooted, my family and friends assume I'm dead, and it's probably for the best. And every single day I wish I could go back to before I ever knew you. You have destroyed so many things, and yet, here I am. I hate what I have become because of you, but at the same time, I only have myself to blame. But at the end of the day, even though I know I could leave and find a way to make it that way, I'm still here. I'm still here." Will inhales deeply, "now why don't you explain that to me, Doctor Lector." 

In a rush that had been held in, six months of unsaid thoughts, Will's eyes are glassy and dark, as Hannibal lifts his hands to cup, the sides of his head. Pale fingers gently weaving between sweaty locks, he makes small circles with his fingertips. "I don't think you would take my explanation, Will." Hannibal says softly, "that is something I cannot answer for you." Will exhales, his warm breath on Hannibal's face. "I answered it a long time ago." Will says, his body is slowly relaxing. 

The thing about distance is that eventually, it collapses. There were just so many times, but it wasn't until Will was talking and upset and standing covered in sweat and garden soil, smelling of sunshine and deep green summer foliage. 

Hannibal moves, but only a split second after Will.   
The younger man’s mouth is hot as it makes contact with Hannibal's throat. He sucks briefly, as Hannibal's hands tighten in his hair. "Will," he manages out. Will's hands come up to grip the edge of that pristine white button-down shirt. He tugs slightly, as he laps and bites his way up the pale neck of Hannibal Lector. 

Will is twisting his hands around the shirt tails, and pulling the other man closer. Their bodies make contact. Hannibal pulls Will by the hair away from his abused neck, and tilts his head back. Will is panting, his eyes glazed, face painted a pretty pink. Hannibal inwardly groans, this perfect and utterly crazy young man had been his undoing for years now, obsessed and diligent, easy to undo and even easier to- he halts his inner thoughts abruptly. Will licks his lips to wet them, and Hannibal descends. Ravenous. His thin lips meet Will's with urgency, he is still holding his hair. Will is gasping for breath, as he feels his back pressed firmly to the edge of the counter. Hannibal's skin, though cool, does not accurately prepare the other man for his experienced tongue and warm mouth that touches the flimsy edges of his ragged soul. Will is pulling at the back of Hannibal's shirt, and Hannibal's hands are tangled in Will's dark locks. Hannibal's shirt is no longer pristine.

 

II-  
It is early fall, and the leaves are beginning to turn. After that one day in deep summer, Will had a mild panic attack and retreated into himself for a solid week. Hannibal paced the kitchen. Hannibal wears shoes inside the house. His constant tread wore a slight patch into the floor beside the sink. He has not really seen Will in several weeks.

Will pads down the stairs in heavy socks, he was feeling rather hungry, for once- he had gone on a strike of sorts after the incident in the kitchen. He has know he is being petty, but his heart beats erratically in a hollow chest. He is pushing open the swinging door from the parlor, and entering the warm kitchen. Despite Will’s minor strike, Hannibal has continued to cook enough for two every single day, and leaves Will’s share wrapped up in the refrigerator, perfectly plated, waiting for when the ill-tempered other man will come down in the middle of the night, eat and then go back into hiding. At the sound of the door, Hannibal looks up, surprised. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Will?” He is trimming green beans; his cuffs are neat on his charcoal grey button up. He is wearing a cotton apron with thin blue stripes. His hair has grown slightly. It brushes his eyebrows when he looks up at Will. The other man looks a mix between a frightened deer and a sheepish child who knows that he has been overreacting. Will crosses his arms over his light sweater. Defensive. 

Hannibal is coming around the corner of the center island and wiping his hands on a towel. He is walking slowly, he stops several feet from Will. “Would you like to wait for dinner this time? Otherwise, I can make something light for you now.” The other man does not make eye contact, he chews his bottom lip. “I’ll wait.” Hannibal ducks his head, and smiles, just a bit. “I’m making something that you like, would you like to help?” Will nods. Hannibal picks up the knife he was using and extends it, handle first, to Will. “I’ll finish the other preparations then, could you help with what I was working on?” Hannibal asks, keeping is voice low and gentle. Another nod. 

Will stands on the worn spot on the floor and looks down. The varnish was just damaged enough to see the shiny edges around open wood. He exhales. 

 

III-  
An early winter snow storm socked in much of the North, the roads were poorly plowed and when the wind picked up it hurt deep in your bones. 

The comfortable pattern that the two sharing the remote little house had fallen into months before had returned. Will chalked it up to being emotionally distant and needing a connection with someone. And Hannibal. Hannibal continued to slowly wear a lingering bald patch into the wood floor of the kitchen. Will Graham was an enigma, and an extremely frustrating one at that. But that tightness in his chest kept Hannibal from acting. The look that he found Will giving him, full of anxiety and just a touch of fear, kept his own heart from beating.   
Hannibal Lector did not need anyone else, or at least, at the beginning of all this, it is what he would have told himself. Countless numbers of individuals carefully dissected, so easy it was to pull humans down to their roots. In the end, the mind is what causes Hannibal to respond. It was distance, that kept him serving his guest their own friends. It was distance, that kept him from developing more empathy to override his specific set of moral guidelines. It had been distance, that had kept him safe. Shattering that perfect persona, is what a single individual had managed to do. Hannibal was displeased, there was no reason to destroy Will Graham, but to devour him-that was, in fact, the remaining question as Hannibal paced the kitchen. 

He is rubbing his temples and leaning on the counter. A large wooden cutting board is out, he is preparing dinner. A nagging in the back of his mind has given way to a rather persistent headache, and it’s already five. A more reasonable person, he thinks, would perhaps discontinue trying to make perfect meals every day, but on some level, it gives comfort. “Are you alright?” Will is standing in front of the swinging door, Hannibal had not noticed him. Will files this away. Since the younger spent a while avoiding all contact, his hair has grown out and the longer section is pulled into a very short ponytail. It’s messy, and somewhat pointless. Hannibal has not offered to cut it.   
Including the center island, it is four strides from where Hannibal stands at the counter to the door. Will takes two steps. “I could help you finish making dinner,” he says, quietly while only halfway making eye contact. Hannibal closes his eyes for a long second. “I would appreciate your assistance, Will.” 

They are standing beside each other, with Hannibal occasionally moving to open the oven door, or get something out of a cupboard. It is comfortable. For a moment. There is a moment, another stubborn, constant moment where Will lets his mind wander. “Will!” He looks down and sees red blooming on his finger. Will drops the knife quickly. Hannibal seizes his wrist, while cutting the flame under the sauté pan he was working with and moves Will forcibly to the sink. Will is silent as the taller man washes the cut. “You were not being careful, Will,” he softly chides, “you need to be aware when handling a knife.” Will laughs through his nose a little, as he thinks back. “You too.” Hannibal turns his head, eyebrow raised, the corner of his mouth quirks up. He inspects the cut on Will’s finger, “it’s not deep, we should still bandage it.” He rubs his thumb over it. Gently. Just once. Just enough for the skin to catch. Will winces, even though it doesn’t really hurt. And so there they are. Standing by the sink. The tap drips three times. Hannibal is still holding Will’s hand, and Will lets him. More so, he offers it. Lifting his wrist just a little. “It’s fine.” He says, a bit tightly as his cheeks bloom like the blood on his finger. Hannibal lowers his head, and Will lets him. 

At the first touch of Hannibal’s mouth on his hand; Will jumps, just a bit. It is not the thick of summer, there is no sweat dripping from his forehead and down his neck. There is no falling down or pressing need. Just soft deafening snow drifts in the dark. He is holding Will’s wrist, and running his tongue along the fresh wound. Will is silent. Lips trace the inside of his hand, between forefinger and thumb. He removes his mouth and tugs just the slightest bit, closing the distance between them. Forehead meets forehead, and Will’s other hand comes to rest on Hannibal’s hip. They have been this way before, a long time ago. Hannibal reaches his free hand up, he keeps it in contact with the folds of Will’s sweater. Gently, as if with a skittish colt, he finds where the scar on Will’s abdomen would be. Will is shaking, just a little. His eyes are closed. “Will, look at me.” Deep pools that reflect the light grey in Hannibal’s hair that seems bright in the kitchen lights open. “It was never easy to leave you, Will.” 

It is a series of moments that leads to this. The first one being in the hospital, which seems so long ago. But for the first time, it does not feel like an excuse or an apology for being caught. Again, Will lets his head fall to Hannibal’s shoulder. It is quiet. His left-hand toys with the edge of Hannibal’s crisp pale-yellow shirt that is caught between them. He can feel his heart beat strong and quickly, but no longer like a fluttering bird. “I believe you,” he murmurs into the fabric, “I came after you.” This moment is a long one. 

 

IV-  
If winter had come on quickly, it was because spring had already been at its heels. The new year had arrived only a month or two later a warm week melted much of the snow. Hannibal and Will are reading in the bright sun room off the side of the house on a needed weekend. Will stands, and stretches, “do you want anything? I’m going to get some coffee started.” He watches as Hannibal reaches the end of section he is reading, places his bookmark, closes the book, and sets it to the side. There are some things, that Will cannot quite ever understand, but he patiently waits. “Yes, that would be enjoyable, thank you Will.” Will purses his lips just a bit, and nods, Hannibal has changed drastically from the calculating man that he had met years before, but still-. He walks off towards the kitchen. 

Hannibal hears the whistle of the kettle a bit later, he has not returned to his book. There is green already touching the edges of branches outside. It is still quiet. Comfortable. Hannibal removes his shoes and sets them to the side of the couch. He waits. 

Will returns with some amount of noise, clattering through the door a bit. Cursing very quietly as he stubs his toe when it swings shut. Hannibal winces and closes his eyes. “Here, I tried to make it the way you like.” Will sits down awkwardly on the couch beside him, with the two cups. He notices that Hannibal has taken off his shoes. He says nothing. “Thank you Will, I appreciate it.” Will nods, and looks at the book he has been reading on the table. He looks at the cup in his hands. He sets the cup next to the book. Hannibal glances at him. 

Will sighs and runs his fingers through his hair and down his jawline, they come to rest under his chin. He leans on his elbows for a second. In an extremely dog-like way, and in one movement, he grabs the book off the table, swings his legs up on to the couch, and leans back so his head comes to rest against Hannibal’s thigh. He opens the book aggressively, as if to say, “here’s what I’ve decided to do, don’t bother questioning it”. Hannibal smiles slightly and glances down, he moves his right arm, so his hand comes to rest on Will’s chest. Will peers over the top of his book at Hannibal. He drops the book onto his stomach, as Hannibal sets his own cup on the table. As he is leaning back, Will props himself up on his elbow, “Hannibal.”, he says quietly, it’s a statement, a question. He reaches the other man halfway. Softly. Their lips meet, in a hesitant way, like thin ice on a lake. Brittle and sharp. It is not intense or wild, fraught with their pasts collecting into a heated moment- it is quiet, like their long winter nights and summer sun cascading through open windows. This small moment in a series of moments that lead way to months and years ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for stopping by, I hope it wasn’t too much of a run around. Ahaha. I’m really big on repetition and cycles, always have been. Hannibal has been a nice way to push that, especially due to name power. They're a rewarding bunch. 
> 
> It was fun to write some again, though, you probably won’t see me again for another year or two.
> 
> Be well.


End file.
